


A Fish That Cannot Climb Or Swim

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mediocre Grantaire Week, learning disabled Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1284490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an invisible wall separating Grantaire's brain from the rest of the world. Nothing makes sense, nothing is registering. He's stuck in a fog and he hates it. Six years of college and no degree. Twenty-five years of life and nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fish That Cannot Climb Or Swim

**Author's Note:**

> For Mediocre Grantaire Week. I'm sorry if this is not very good. I haven't written anything this long or complex since before November. Title based on the Einstein quote about teaching fishes to climb trees.

There are words. There are words coming out of his professor's mouth and the mouths of his classmates, words that he can pick out of the air and point at them and tell you their individual meaning, but those words will not roll together in his brain to form a cohesive idea. Nothing is sticking. He registers nothing but sounds with no meaning being flung in his face and a barrage of words and concepts and ideas racing towards him only to stumble away when they hit whatever wall is there between his brain and everyone else. He can't pay attention because his brain is floating in some weird foggy haze disattached from the rest of his body, registering nothing, knowing nothing. He watches lips move like a silent film, hears words slide out of parted lips in slow motion, claws through the twisted brambles that somehow conceal his mind from the outside world, but every time something snares him and he can't reach that clarity, can't figure out what he should be understand. He registers nothing but sounds that he _knows_ should mean something to him, but they're only collections of syllables that he cannot comprehend.

This is no new phenomenon. He's in his sixth year of college and doesn't even have a bachelor's degree. Half-finished majors drag at him, and every semester he watches his grade drift down like a dropped feather, slow and steady and unstoppable. It's not that he doesn't try. He's always trying, always working and thinking about his classes. He tries, but he has to try ten times harder to be average at something that everyone else is easily good at. He drops a new hobby after only a few months because he can't get the hang of it, and the things he can do he's only average at despite the fact that he's been practicing them for years.

He remembers sitting in class in elementary school, watching his fellow classmates pick up new languages, math skills, spelling, remembers watching stick figure pictures bloom into pictures of people with identifiable body parts. Remembers standing outside at recess watching other kids play kickball and foursquare, trying to learn the game and only succeeding in getting smacked in the head with the ball. It left him with a dazed, stinging feeling that has been with him ever since. Sometimes he wonders if he ever left that playground, or if his mind is still stuck at eight years old, trying to figure out the rules to some silly game everyone else seemed to understand perfectly.

Of course it moved to middle school and then high school and then, somehow, miraculously, college. He watched everyone around him move up in their lives and he was trapped in a bubble of fog, question marks at every turn that he couldn't decipher. He could never focus, always leaping from thought to thought or having no thoughts at all. Words and ideas slid past him, and would stumble after them, chasing them, tripping, only to have them rush away into the horizon and he was left bent over and panting. He would study for hours, reading his textbooks and doing math problems over and over again, a revolving door of flashcards came and went in front of him until his eyes blurred. And yet nothing was there when he woke up the next morning. He can't remember a time without all of this. He can't remember when he felt smart or competent, he can't remember a time when he could learn something and it would stay.

It's like a Zen master question: is he still stupid if he's aware of it? He has no idea how many times he's heard the phrases "Just try harder, you can do it!" and "You have so much potential! You just need to realize it!" Do they think he hasn't tried hard? Contrary to what most people assume, Grantaire has never missed a class, has never skipped a class, comes in even when he's horribly ill, even when his depression makes it nearly impossible to get out of bed. He does every assignment unless he absolutely does not understand, and still he is failing. Still he watches his grade darken the faces of his professors when they hand back assignments. Still he gets those "try harder, study more" sentiments from everyone around him, as if he's not stupid, only lazy. He wonders sometimes if the people around him are aware of how dumb he is, and they only don't mention it order to try and make him feel better and not hurt him. He wishes they would just say it, just call him an idiot and tell the truth and be over it. He knows he's fucking dumb, it's not going to bother him if people tell the truth. It hurts more when they constantly pester him with the nonsense idea that he has anything resembling "potential." He's highly aware of his perpetually blank mind and the invisible wall that separates him from the rest of the world. He'd rather acknowledge it than have to deal with false assurances that it isn't there.

His professor taps him on the shoulder as everyone else is packing up.

"Do you have a class to get to?" Grantaire shakes his head no. "Mind if we had a chat in my office?"

Another shake. He follows Professor Engles down the hall to his office and sits in the blue chair shoved between the doorway and an overstuffed bookcase. The chair is so worn that his butt sinks a good two inches more than it should, but his knees stay up.

"Ummm..." He rubs his palms against the rough fabric of his jeans, taps one foot against the textbooks in his backpack. He's almost certain he knows what's coming.

"I wanted to talk to you about your grades and how you're doing in class." Did he not call it? He called it. "You've been doing poorly in this class for a few months now, and I ran into a couple of your other professors, and they said you weren't doing well in their classes either. Is something wrong? Is there anything I can help with? I only want to see you flourish."

"I _am_ trying. I study every night. I just...don't know."  
  
Professor Engles shifts forward in his chair, one hand going to his chin. "I know this might be presumptuous of me to say, or maybe a little forward, but perhaps you should try a different major. If this one's not working out for you--"

The tiny stingers of tears jab at the backs of his eyes, but Grantaire can't help but laugh, lip curled back to show his crooked teeth. The solid blank weight of how stupid he is sits heavily in his chest, crawling up to block his throat. "It's fine, professor. I've switched majors enough times. I'll just see if I can study even more."

"Alright, well, come to me if you ever need any help."

Grantaire walks away from the office with cold laughter still sizzling in his stomach and weepy exhaustion pressing at the backs of his eyes.

His apartment is an obstacle course of clothes and books and half-started canvases and random items and mostly-empty boxes of cereal and a partially-strung acoustic guitar leaning precariously against the bookshelf. He trips over a pillow flung in front of the door, stumbles down the hall and flops onto the nest of pillows and blankets on his bed and pulls his laptop toward him. Facebook is already open from a few days ago, so he decides to scroll through and see what everyone is up to.

He forgot. He forgot how fucking awful it is to go on Facebook and be reminded that everyone he knows is graduated or graduating and moving on to higher things, getting grants and getting jobs and travelling and getting published and doing all these wonderful things. He gets to watch them all from a distance as they gloat and crow about their successes and celebrate and compliment each other. And he's stuck here. In this room. In this tiny blank brain. Doing nothing. Knowing nothing. Slowly failing out of college one year at a time as he wastes his time and money on alcohol and useless studying. He shoves his computer away from him and slumps his face into a pillow, pulling his blanket up over his head to hide from the ache that all this brings.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss is a fucking liar. He's an idiot and it's fucking painful, like someone has taken his heart and wrenched it open, sucked his brains out but only enough that he can't _do_ anything _right_. His whole life he's been looking at other people and wishing he could do the things they do, fly the way they fly. But he tries, he jumps, and only succeeds in coming crashing down and breaking something in the fall.

He gets in half a nap before his phone buzzes beside his head, knocking against his forehead as he gropes for it with his face still mashed in a pillow. Bossuet's cheery text informs him that their little group of friends is going to the Corinthe for some drinks, and does he want to come along? The decision takes no thought: drinks and friends is better than no drinks and sitting in silence while his brain forces him to think about how much of an idiot failure he is. He puts his boots back on and nearly trips again as he heads out the door.

His friends are gathered at a cluster of tables near the back of the Corinthe, and Joly gives a wave as Grantaire steps in, shaking hair out of his eyes and loping over to the counter to order a drink. He retrieves it and makes his way to the back, the tips of his fingers pressing into the cold glass, elbows lifted high to make sure he doesn't spill anything. Jehan and Bossuet scoot down in order to make room for him at the end of the table, and he tosses himself back into the seat before lifting the glass to his lips. He tunes into the conversation; they seem to be reminiscing. Most of his friends went to high school together, or met freshman year of college and remained attached. Grantaire's from out of state, and it's his billionth year of college, and he's been in too many different majors to get attached to a group of people. Still, Bossuet and Jehan have been in a few of his classes, so he knows them best.

"But remember when you skipped class to go on a date with that girl?" Bahorel is saying to Courfeyrac. "And it was like the tenth time you skipped that class and we all thought you were going to get a truancy report or something--"

"Except I did all my work in that class and got As so the teacher didn't care." Courfeyrac dips his fingers in his water and flicks the droplets at Bahorel. "It's not like I was the only one skipping classes in high school, bro."

"I seem to remember our two brethren running off to go to a protest," Joly laughs, arm shooting out to point. Bossuet, in a stroke of good reflexes, manages to place a hand over his boyfriend's water glass so it doesn't tip over. "And the little rebels tried a cigarette for the first time, too, or so says Combeferre."

Enjolras sticks out his tongue, nose wrinkling up in disgust. "It was awful. I don't understand why people like that shit. But the protests were cool. And my classes weren't hard enough that skipping was going to make a difference on my work, you know that Courfeyrac."

"You took _five_ AP courses!" Courfeyrac's hands fly around his head like excited bees. "The only reason you didn't take more was because the only other one was AP art and you haven't got an artistic bone in your body."

"It looked good on my transcript, okay? And really, it wasn't hard. I did get As in all of them."

Bahorel leans over to pinch Enjolras' cheek. "You little genius, you." Enjolras swats at him with a scowl, but grins again when Bahorel lets go of his face and ruffles his hair instead.

"Combeferre's the one that skipped nearly an entire semester of history and still aced the midterm _and_ the final."

"You utter _asshole_!" Joly laughs, shoving Combeferre in the shoulder. "I hate you!"

But Combeferre is pouting accusingly at Enjolras. "I thought you were on my side!"

"All's fair?"

Grantaire is shrinking. Grantaire is floating away on the emptiness he can feel in his own head. He stares down at the glass in his hand as if the foam clinging to the sides will give him some sort of mysterious knowledge or talent he can impress everyone with. He can't remember the last time he got a B in anything, much less an A. He feels like an idiot. He is unintelligent, unimportant, un-anything. He's nothing to any of them. They value intelligence and talent and ability, and he has none. He never had any. He's always had to work so hard just to get a C in anything, so hard just to be average at anything most people were easily great at. He remembers elementary and middle school as a time of nothingness and every lesson sliding out of his brain the moment he turned around to do something new. He remembers high school as a series of screaming fights with his father over his inability to succeed in any subject in school and a long gauntlet of tear-stained homework pages and pillowcases.

"Compared to all you I'm a fucking idiot," Bahorel groans, dropping his head back to dangle in the air. "I only ever got Bs in high school."

"You were too busy beating people up."

Bahorel holds up a finger. "Only consenting people, and _only_ in gym."

Grantaire can feel the cold in his stomach rising, and his brain is filled with an angry sort of static. A desert separates him from his friends. Several deserts. Not even the drinks on the table are enough of an oasis for him to want to stay. The wall is there, thicker and stronger and more obvious than ever and he wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants the world to crash down on everyone's shoulders so they can at least get a glimpse of the shit he has to deal with every day. He just wants one day, just one day where he isn't reminded of the barrenness of his own brain and the indisputable fact that he was apparently asleep the day they were handing out intellectual ability. He's too stupid to do anything. Nothing makes sense to him, he's a fucking idiot and there's nothing else to it. Here is only more proof.

"Remember when we were in third grade and you got in trouble for reading that college-level autobiography because the teacher thought you were faking it?" Courfeyrac is saying to Combeferre, and Grantaire stands up and walks away.

His apartment is comfortable. His bedroom is a sanctuary. These four walls contain only him and his attempts and nothing else. He can box himself into his bed with a barricade of blankets, or spread out and try to cram enough information into the sieve in his head that it will somehow turn solid and not seep away. He can stay here and not have to face his unintelligence and the successes of others that he couldn't even imagine reaching.

It's a Saturday when Marius invites him out for lunch, just the two of them since everyone else either has major essays to work on or has gone home for the weekend. The diner they end up at isn't too busy, but a couple at the counter seem confused, the woman's brown hair trembling with distress while the man gestures at the cashier imploringly. The cashier looks blankly back, lost.

"What's going on?" Grantaire asks of the room at large.

The couple pause, pivot towards him, and restart their frantic questions, half in English with a thick accent Grantaire can't place, and half in another language. He can feel his facial expression slide to look just as lost as the cashier, but Marius twitches beside him and a small "oh," comes out of his mouth before he steps forward and starts talking rapidly in another language. In an instant, the frantic, confused expressed whip off the faces of the man and woman, replaced by relieved smiles and, on the woman's part, a quick adjustment of clothes and hair. Finally the two shake Marius' hand and depart with a wave and what seems to be a plethora of 'thank you's. Marius waves back and steps up to the counter to order.

"What the hell was that?" Grantaire asks once they're sitting down. "What language was that?"

"German," Marius answers with a shrug of nonchalance, oblivious to Grantaire's amazement. "I taught myself a few year back. I try to keep up my fluency but it's a little hard sometimes when you don't hang out with native speakers very often."

"You taught _yourself_? No classes?"

"Yeah, it wasn't really that hard. It took some work, but I did it."

"Jesus christ." Grantaire shakes his head, and tries to ignore the ice crawling up his insides, clenching his fist instead and changing the subject. Still, the words chase themselves around in his head, _idiot, useless, untalented, stupid, failure,_ even as he tries to pay attention to what Marius is saying about his lovely girlfriend's new golden retriever. When their lunch is over, Marius waves him goodbye with a grin. Grantaire waves back, and walks away without looking behind him. His thoughts are circling.

He can't seem to get back to his bed fast enough. Why is he even hanging out with this group of people? Why do they let him near them? Why is he even there? Why is he even existing in the same plane as them? Why? What's the fucking point of him if he doesn't know anything, if he can't do anything?

The group doesn't seem to notice that his fingers neglect to answer texted invitations to the Corinthe, or that his feet drag as he reaches the building, reverse and take him away to another bar to drink and hide. They don't seem to notice that when he's with them he shrinks, like maybe keeping his eyes down and his mouth shut will prevent them from looking at him and _knowing_. He hides in the words that his eyes scrape over and the numbers that his pen slices into the paper and the studying the studying the studying and still the waves wash over him. Everyone else is standing on the shore and he's stuck in the middle of the ocean, floundering, flailing, swallowing down water every time he opens his mouth to yell.

There's a choice, though. He can see it floating within arm's reach but it's dark and painful and he doesn't want it. He's been here for six years, he just wants to get a degree and be done with it but every day it seems less and less like that's what's going to happen. He wishes he could talk to his friends, but he can't. He knows what he'll hear. Everyone carries the same tape, constantly rewinding it and playing it back and rewinding so he hears it all again and again "just try harder! You can do it! You have so much potential!" It's all bullshit. He'll stand in front of them all and spread his arms wide as proof that those things don't work. He can't tell his friends. They value intelligence and hard work. He can't be that dropout idiot in a group of successful geniuses. That makes him something less than trash, less than dirt. He's worthless if he drops out.

"Come over to my house. We can watch stupid movies and get balls drunk." Floreal says as soon as he puts his phone to his ear when it buzzes in his pocket. "You know you want to."

"Fine. Be right over."

Floreal is waiting for him on the couch, her feet kicked up against the wall, remote control in one hand, the other deep in a bag of Cheetos. She's drowning in a too-big hoodie and nothing else. He hair is falling out of its bun and dragging on the floor. One knee-high sock has come off her foot and is draped over the back of the couch. "Come on in, boy, make yerself at home," she drawls, gesturing to an empty spot on the couch. He flops down and hooks a foot around the leg of the coffee table to drag it closer so he can grab the bottle of whiskey set beside a stack of DVDs. She stuffs a handful of Cheetos in her mouth and flips the remote in the air. "So what d'you wanna watch?"

"I don't care. Something stupid and funny and pointless."

"Zoolander?"

"Sounds about right."

They settle down to the movie, knocking heads as they slowly sink into the couch and laughing when they go for the chips at the same time. Halfway through the movie Floreal lights a joint and takes a deep drag before handing it to Grantaire.

"So," she starts, the word drifting out in a long cloud of smoke. "Wanna tell me what's up?"

Grantaire nearly chokes on his toke. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Floreal rolls onto her stomach, kicking her legs into the air. Her elbows dig into his thigh and her blue hair drags against the couch. "And _I_ call bullshit. You're being mopey and I want to know why. You know I'm not going to give you advice because I'm shit at that. I'm just nosy."

Grantaire sighs, and takes another two long drags to calm down. Then he hands Floreal the joint and flops his head over the back of the couch. "I'm failing again. Or should I say, as usual."

"And how is this different to any other time?"

Grantaire shrugs. "I've been here six years and I'm no closer to getting any sort of degree. The guys....don't know, and the other day they were all talking about how they used to skip tons of classes and still got straight As. I guess it just made me realize that I'm a complete idiot. I'm not intelligent and I can't learn and I have no skills."

Floreal sighs and bumps her head against his sternum, but says nothing. She knows placations are useless and insulting.

"It's been six years. I feel like I should get something out of all the goddamn money and time I've wasted. But maybe it'd be better if I just dropped out."

"It's your choice. I can't help you on this one. Sorry, man."

"I know." Grantaire pulls smoke into his lungs and watches the world wobble a little, his perception maybe finally aligning with the skewed function of his brain. "I just...I'll be an idiot, you know. More than now. Everyone will know it."

"But you won't be miserable."

"Who ever said that?"

"Okay, you might be miserable, but it'll be a different kind."

"That's better. I don't know. I guess I should figure it out."

"You will." She smacks his shoulder and shoves some Cheetos into his hand. "Now, watch the movie."

The papers are filled out and all he has to do is turn them in. He has no other choice, no other way of action. Six years should have told him this. _Four_ years should have told him this. The papers are there, filled out, waiting. They sit on his desk and stare at him, burning a hole into his head and hissing. _Idiot, idiot, idiot, failure, loser, stupid, look at you. You can't even complete college. Look how dumb you are compared to all your friends. You stupid fucking failure. You couldn't hack it. You can't do anything._ He nearly rips them in half.

It shouldn't be this strange. It shouldn't be this strange tug of too easy and too hard. It shouldn't feel this numb, but it does. He stares distantly at the crumpled papers on the registrar's desk as the woman smooths them out and peers at each box to make sure it's filled out correctly.

"Sorry," he apologizes for the wrinkles. "I didn't mean to mess them up."

She waves him off with a distracted smile. "It's fine. I'll just enter this into the system and you're good to go."

"I- uh- thanks." There are too many years and too many non-thoughts caught in his throat for him to say anything else. He thumps his fist on the counter gently, as if making it final, before turning and walking away.

He realizes he seems to be doing that a lot lately.

Halfway back to his apartment, he realizes it's over. He's done. He's not in college anymore and he doesn't have to be. He sinks down onto the curb and puts his head in his hands. He's done. He's a fucking idiot and a failure, but he's done. The celebratory whiskey he buys on his way home tastes sweeter than usual.

"Hey, I didn't see you in the hall after class the other day," Feuilly pokes him in the shoulder. "Are you okay?"

They're squashed together in a couple of tables that have been shoved up next to each other. Most of the group is loudly discussing some new bill having to do with women's health. Grantaire is staring at his beer. It's been a week.

He looks up at the poke on his shoulder. "Hm, what? Oh, yeah, uh," The bottle captures his attention again. "I dropped out." He mumbles. It sounds like shame when it drips from his lips. His face burns.

"What? It's too loud in here."

Grantaire takes a deep breath and turns to Feuilly. He's shaking, he can feel his skin wanting to slide away. Why is this terrifying? "I dropped out."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Bahorel waves at him from across the table. "Hey, man, you feeling better? You haven't been at school the last few days."

Grantaire grinds his toes against the floor, as if he could scrape a hole into the ground and fall into it, let it swallow him whole and smother him in blackness. His face is hot, it must be red; he wonders if maybe he could go up in flames right now and save himself from the humiliation and ache of his stupidity. He thought maybe it would go away once he dropped out. Apparently not. He clenches his fist around his bottle and tenses his jaw. Bahorel is still waiting.

"I, uh, I dropped out."

The table chatter dies down as everyone turns to look at him. He wishes he would just die right now. He feels an earthquake inside him, fire, rapid-freezing ice, he thinks he might vomit. They're all staring at him, _knowing_ , suddenly seeing how stupid he is and judging him and he doesn't fit anymore, he never fit, he doesn't belong and his arms are pushing back his seat and he's getting to his feet and shrugging a humiliated "yeah" and walking out the door. No one follows him. He doesn't belong, they don't need him.

Eponine is more than welcoming, and she asks no questions. Instead, she shoves him into the kitchen and forces him to help her make cookies for Gavroche's class tomorrow. Her whirlwind of a little brother is too busy bouncing off the walls to help, but Grantaire doesn't mind. Being busy means he doesn't have to try to think.

He spends most of his time with Eponine and Floreal, now. They don't ask questions and they don't judge. Eponine never got to college, and Floreal just doesn't give a shit. They know each other's dirty laundry after being friends since middle school. Sometimes Joly and Bossuet invite him out to lunch, and it's nice because he knows they just like him for him, but at the same time there's always that thought niggling away at the back of his mind, _they know, they know, and they pity you for it_. Still, it's nice to see them, and they don't talk about politics or school when they're out together. That at least helps Grantaire breathe easier. He has little to nothing in common with that group now, but Joly and Bossuet are still here. The desert now contains the tiniest of oases, or maybe a mirage, but it's good enough.

Grantaire flings himself backward onto Floreal's couch, nearly crushing her as she scrambles to sit up and curl into a corner of the cushions.

"What the hell?"

"I got a job." Grantaire informs her as she rubs her knee where she banged it.

"Good for you, that's no reason to go about trying to crush me." She picks her beer up off the table adn offers it to him to clink. "But seriously, good for you."

"It's a shit job, and I'm never going to get anything better."

"But it's a job."

Grantaire shrugs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I guess. I just wish it could have been different. I wish I wasn't so stupid, I wish I could fucking finish school. I really hate being like this."

Floreal gets up from the couch and wanders into the kitchen. When she comes out, something silver whizzes at his head and smacks him in the forehead before falling into his lap. He picks up the fruit roll-up and starts to unwrap it while Floreal sits back down. "Stop being so mopey about it. Maybe you'll change one day. Maybe you won't. Whatever. It's how you are."

"It sucks."

"That's life. Life sucks."

"Never such truer words. Can we watch Heathers? I want murderous 80s hairdos and Christian Slater before he got creepy-looking."

There's an invisible wall between him and the world, and fuzzy fog that his brain sits in and hums to itself. It's uncomfortable and it makes him want to cry and he hates it. He hates not knowing things and not being able to comprehend ideas or words or numbers. He hates having ask people to repeat directions or instructions that he's already forgotten. But it's the way he is and it's not going to change anytime soon. He's always going to hate it. He's always going to feel claustrophobic or lost inside his own mind. He's always going to feel stuck. He's always going to ache.

But he's done with that world now, the six years of struggle and misery. The twenty-three years, if he's honest with himself.

There are words. There are words and numbers and he doesn't understand them and his head blurs everything into an incomprehensible mass and there are days when he wakes up and can't think at all and just has to stare blankly at the ceiling. But the cold ice in his stomach is melted by beer and movies with Floreal and video games with Eponine and Gavroche. He knows he's not going anywhere in life, that somehow he's that feather that's been caught on a root as it floats down the river on a foggy morning, watching everything else pass him by in a distant haze. But he's still floating, and he's still above water, and maybe that could be enough.


End file.
